The Minister of Bethel

I must now bring my Autobiography to an end, for the same reason, partly, as that which induced me to begin it. What was that? I will give it in a very few words. I have spent some years at Bethel in the capacity of a pastor. When I began to write, I intended the history of those years to form the most important part of my work. I now see that this is out of the question, and I am sorry for having taken so much time in speaking of less worthy topics. It was not without a great deal of serious reflection that I undertook, before I was twenty-three years old, the pastorate of the church I was reared in. It was myself I feared and not the church, for I knew every one of the members, who were easily-accessible, kindly people. I wanted no time to make myself at home. In going to Miss Hughes’s to lodge, I was but returning to my old habitation. All that was new to me was the work. It is not for me to say what adapability I possessed for my duties; but I can say that my heart was full of them, and that my desire to perform them in the best way possible knew no bounds..I felt that my undertaking the office gave evidence of high aspiration, and often was self-abashed in consequence. But I think the responsibility thus cast upon me, induced me to pray more. If I was bound to fail, I determined it should not be by reason of indolence, carelessness and self-sufficiency. I worked hard—possibly too hard— but I take no credit to myself for that—I couldn’t help it. My stipend was small, but it was enough; my needs were not great. Indeed, I think I found consolation many times in the meagreness of my pay. It was not sufficiently large to bring me uneasiness of mind, and it was too small for anyone else to be at the pains of reproaching me. Had anybody done so, I fear I should have refused it altogether; there being a deal of mother’s unreasoning independence about me. But no one ever did. I tried to do my duty; and I had in me an ambition, a principle, or something, to give satisfaction to those whom I served. The harder I worked the calmer became my mind, the easier I could sleep of nights. If I slackened mv hands, my old enemy, low spiritedness, assailed me on the instant. I have not had much cause to complain since I am here; and even if I had, there were occasions enough for thankfulness to make me hold my peace. I was not overlooked by the Monthly Meeting, and was selected for ordination much sooner than I deserved. I got every assistance and encouragement from David Davis and “Eos;” every kindness from the church in general and the young people in particular.

About two years ago, I thought this kindness was becoming more and more marked. If I had a journey of six or eight miles to make, David Davis would insist upon lending me his horse. Miss Hughes was more than usually careful that I had enough clothes about me. Thomas Bartley was constant in enjoining me to eat plenty of ham and eggs, while others exhorted me to take care of myself. The interest taken in me made me think of inquiring into the cause. I knew I did not deserve all this. What, then, was the reason for it? I was not long in finding out, and, having once found it, I could detect it in the looks and the demeanor of all my friends towards me. I was failing in health, I had never been strong, and although I had for some time seen that my strength was declining, I had not apprehended any danger. Others perceived it before I did. When I realised the fact, my spirit sank within me. The doctor tried to cheer me by saying it was only a little weakness, for which I wanted change of air and rest. “Where should I go to? I liked the sea side. No, I should not go there; it would be best I went to Trefriw. I understood the hint. Yes, O, sea! It is with thee I was compelled to begin the severance of my earthly connection. The pang it was! Although thou always made’st me sad, I loved to roam thy shores. I felt thy sound to correspond to something in my bosom which I could not define; that thou didst convey some message to me, from the far off distances, concerning the Unknown! I But I was now prohibited from visiting thee!

At Trefriw I met several old friends, some of whom were foolish enough to express their astonishment at seeing me so much better. They tried to comfort me, to rejoice with me and cause me to forget myself; but, beneath their joy, I detected a serious anxiety. How I envied them their sprightliness and vigour! I got great benefit from my stay at Trefriw, and, before leaving, was able to enjoy a little of the innocent fun which was carried on at the Well. From this I thought I had taken a turn for the better. I cannot tell the satisfaction and the pleasure which filled my breast, in consequence. When I returned to Bethel, the friends there were surprised and delighted at the change which had taken place in me. I preached on the Sabbath following without feeling the slightest weariness; and great was my happiness thereat.

Weeks afterwards I found I had gone back to the old mark. Thinking I had nothing to do but to re-visit Trefriw, and no one being able to persuade me to the contrary, I went. As far as I could see, I was the only stranger in the village. The weather was cold and wet. I kept my room for four days before returning home, worse in health than when I left. I feared the doctor did not understand my complaint, and fell to searching the newspapers for quack advertisements. I secretly spent much money before discovering that the announcements were lies and the testimonials but creations of the advertisers’ fancy. I could not conceal from myself the fact that my health and strength were declining, for I felt preaching to be getting more difficult every Sunday. The occasional beginning of service by some kindly deacon gave me an indication of my real condition and depressed me greatly. At first I refused the preferred kindness which I subsequently, however, gratefully accepted. It is over a year since I preached last; but I think I would have gone on longer had I not consulted another doctor who told me the truth, and ordered me to give up the work at once. Should the truth be at all times told? This is a truth I am bound to tell—I grieved a good deal that that doctor did not keep the truth from me. It was a terrible truth and one which sank my spirit into frightful depths. I had no desire to speak to any one for some time afterwards. There was aroused in me a fierce craving for life of which I had not been conscious hitherto. I felt as if I had been deceived by that on which I had most depended. For days and nights I quarrelled, in my mind, with doctors, fate, Providence and, I fear, God. I saw daily passing my window much older men than I, sturdy, strong and broad-chested; some of them cursing, swearing and getting drunk; while I, poor wretch, had a chest like a ricketty basket. Who was it ordered things in this way? Was all but a blind, unreasoning medley? My plans had been frustrated, and I felt keenly the force and edge of the saying, “In that very day his thoughts perish.” I had by me several sermons on de? th, the other world, and similar subjects; but how worthless they had become by this time! How cold and how soul-less! If I had the opportunity, how much better I could preach now than before! It took me weeks to learn how to submit to the inevitable and to give in mv resignation. How hard the struggle By now, everything appeared in a new aspect. Those subjects in which I used to take the deepest interest—politics and literature for instance— lost all their charm, and I wondered having ever been delighted by them. The range of my studies diminished daily until my mind at last gave itself up entirely to matters which concerned my spiritual fate. No longer did those truths which I had once found the greatest pleasure in preaching do aught but sadden me and sink me down into depths of sorrow unspeakable.

But, by grace of Heaven, I presently mastered my melancholy. I got to feel readier to recognise God’s hand, and to throw myself into His arms. I occasionally caught glimpses of ineffable happiness and flashes of light upon the order of the Gospel, which I had never experienced before I was afflicted. There were times when I went into silent raptures over my condition, and a powerful longing took possession of me for the perfection and glory of the spiritual world. Now and again I could contemplate my body and its weakness as something apart from myself, and laugh at both. I would afterwards subside into a pleasing peace, and reflect upon the disagreeable things from which I had been saved by this break-down of my strength by the way. Permitted to live, I might have been overcome by some temptation or other, which would have brought me and my calling into disgrace. Thinking of some I had known, what a mercy it was they had died young! Again there would come periods of dejection, of giving way to morbid and profitless brooding. During one of them, I was struck by this very strange fancy: If Providence was for taking me hence in the midst of my days, could I not compensate myself by living over again (in my own mind), the whole of my life, and so double it? Could I not, as my strength permitted, devote a few hours, every day, to going over the principal events of my career? This would keep me from stewing amongst unprofitable matter, and from eating myself up before my time. In one position I was pretty free from pain, and perhaps the writing of my Autobiography might do me good. The outcome of that fancy has been the present copious writing. It is the work of a serious man, though that may seem improbable to those who remember the various amusing incidents it contains. But there is nothing strange in that. If there be found here too much mention of Will Bryan, I flatter myself there are some things here, also, which every thoughful man—every man who has been awakened to the great questions of life—is bound to ponder. Were it otherwise, the fire would have been the fittest place for the manuscript.

I should have been glad to note something more definite and cheering with respect to Will Bryan. But I have not heard anything from him, for some time. In his last letter to me he saul he had finished paying his father’s debts, and that he continued to attend the Welsh Chapel, but that, as yet, he had not “reached himself.” My last letter to him was returned marked— “left without address.” It is months since then, and I never heard from him afterwards. Has Will gone out with the tide? No: I have a presentiment that at the last he will turn up safe.

My mother, as I have stated, charged me, upon her death-bed to requite the Bartleys for their kindness to her. But I never got the chance. The boot is on the other leg. The kindness of both towards me has had no end; their sympathy with me in my illness is beyond measure, and very precious. Their understanding is limited, and I have many times debated the object of their creation. And yet I envy them. Both are well, both happy and likely to live for many years to come. Even if they put their heads together they could not read a verse; but they enjoy religion, and doubtless possess its strength. So close is the similarity and union between them, that I almost believe they will die the same day. I do not see how Thomas and Barbara can possibly live apart.

If someone should go to the trouble of reading this history, it may be he will wonder why I have made so much mention of things connected with my family which are dishonorable; and perhaps he will ask, in Will Bryan’s words, whether this is ‘true to nature?’ But how could the history be different and be true? And, after I have gone hence, who will be injured? No one need bow the head, because I am the last of my family.

In looking over what I have written, I see I have, from forgetfulness, left some things untouched which I would like to have dealt with; while other things have been purposely omitted. To all seeming, it is not likely I shall ever revise this account, because the writing of the latter portions of it has been burdensome to me; as, I fear, the perusal will be to others. If it so happen, the reader can do as I have done—lay it by when he has become tired.